Habitual
by fuzzy oranges
Summary: The BAU team investigates a series of murders where victims are found with numbers carved into their skin. With a new replacement and a secret haunting the team regarding their missing member, getting into the mind of the criminal could prove difficult.
1. Prologue

**Title: Habitual**

**Summary**: The BAU team investigates a series of murders where victims are found with numbers carved into their stomachs. With a new replacement and a secret haunting the team regarding their missing member, getting into the mind of the criminal could prove difficult. CaseFic.

**Rating:** K+ for some cursing, violence, and disturbing imagery.

**Disclaimer**: We own very little, and that very little does not include Criminal Minds or its characters. Technically, dieselwriter doesn't even own the computer she edits from. The things we do own and take credit for are the ideas, the fictional Bluefield, IN, and the OC's in this fic, including Special Agent Megan Clarke.

**Dedication**: To us! For fuzzyoranges' first Criminal Minds collaboration, and hopefully not the last. And to the people who take the time to read this!

**akacinno's A/N**: Yes, it is our first CM fic. Be gentle and patient! Things may start off confusing, but stick with it!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: This was all written pre-Prentiss/Doyle storyline, so it is unknown whether this will be AU or not. I'm thinking we can make it work to be all canon, but that certainly depends on if Prentiss lives or not past this Wednesday's episode. Also worthy of note is the fact that my sister and I have no real working knowledge of the criminal justice system, but we do quite a bit of research, so bear with us. We try to keep things as realistic as possible, but some suspension of judgment may be needed. So, to take the roundabout way of reflecting akacinno's sentiments, please be gentle.

Prologue

* * *

_You can't reach old age by another man's road. My habits protect my life but they would assassinate you._  
-Mark Twain

_Bluefield, Indiana  
April 18th_

Standing near the first tents of the farmer's market, the teenage boy watched as the men and women loaded their crops back into boxes after a long, tiring day of selling and trading their goods. His eyes scoped the scene; the farmers were wiping their brows, laughing and joking, happy with the success of the day.

He crouched down behind a large stack of wooden crates containing red delicious apples, pretending to be tying his shoelace as he waited for the perfect moment.

He picked the tent that was closest to the front, just in case he was caught. It was the quickest getaway, although he did not think he'd be noticed. He had waited purposefully until after the market ended, when they would all be weary and distracted.

Coincidently, the occupant of the tent he selected had one of the broadest smiles and a cash box bursting with hard-earned money sitting on the table in front of him.

It was a small town. These people didn't worry about stealing because the hard-working men made an honest living and were trusting of their community.

As the man picked up an armful of large wicker baskets and turned to load them into his truck, the teenager straightened up and walked as subtly as possible past the table. He didn't pause as, in one swift movement, he caught up the cash box and continued down the street. The owner of the tent, still with his back turned, noticed nothing. Slipping the cash box under his oversized army jacket was easy and simple.

He smiled as he exited the market and into the golden glow of the setting sun, hearing no irate exclamations of thievery. He gave a short laugh of exhilaration, adrenaline slowly disappearing as his footsteps quickened, putting distance behind his latest target.

The teenager turned behind an auto shop and paused to open the cash box, to count his newly and deceitfully acquired profits.

There were sudden footsteps directly behind him and he froze up. He waited a few moments before his brain began working and he made to run.

A hand snatched at the back of his jacket and the cash box fell to the ground, bills spilling out. Turning around, he found himself face to face with someone he immediately recognized from the market.

"I'm sorry," he squeaked. "I'll return it. I'll do it myself. Just don't-"

His eyes bulged out of his skull and his words were lost in his throat. Overwhelmed by pure shock, he felt his mouth fill with blood as the silver knife was yanked out of his throat and shoved back into his chest.

He fell to his knees and then tipped onto his back. With his huge eyes still open, he stared at the face of his murderer as the knife was ripped out once again.

As a distinct coldness spread throughout his body and a darkness closed in around his vision, he saw his executioner lean forward into his face, the expression quite serious, even a little frightened.

"Eight," the killer spoke with a quiver.

The teenage boy's eyes emptied.

* * *

**akaccino's A/N**: This beginning was completely written by me! Dieselwriter's writing is in the next chapter. I think you'll be able to distinguish our writing style in time. For one, she writes mostly action and uses...bigger words. : D I like romance and a lot of dialogue, but hopefully I did all right in this^^. Thanks for reading! ( :

**dieselwriter's A/N**: I'd like to take a little credit in the fact that I...edited. I'd also like to think that I don't use _that _big of words. Maybe a few. I swear I use them in regular speech, though; that's just the way I am, I suppose. Please stay tuned for the next chapter, which will feature the team! Hurray! And as always, reviews would be much appreciated. :D


	2. Chapter One

**akacinno's A/N**: OMG AN OC. We try to stay away from OC's because they all tend to be drop dead gorgeous and can do no wrong. This is not Megan Clarke. Keep an open mind!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: My turn! :)

Chapter One

_

* * *

_

_FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia  
__April 21st_

"Good morning, Spencer."

A Starbucks coffee with a load of sugar in it was placed in front of Dr. Reid and he looked up from his paperwork.

"Good morning. Thanks," he said and took a sip before grimacing.

SSA Megan Clarke frowned apologetically.

"I keep telling them more sugar, but I guess they don't think it's reasonable."

"What are they doing, rationing it?" he asked, heading to the break room to sweeten his coffee.

She smiled and took a sip from her own cup as Derek Morgan passed her desk. He glanced at her and gave a mischievous grin.

"What?" she narrowed her eyes over the cup.

He shrugged, although the amusement remained in his eyes.

"I like your hair today."

She huffed and plucked the hair tie from her wrist.

"Shut it, Morgan."

"Aw, why're you putting it up?" he asked and laughed. "It's fluffy!"

"It's humid outside!" she snapped defensively, tying her hair in a bun at the back of her head.

The banter between the two started from the minute she arrived at the BAU to replace Emily Prentiss. He teased her about her long wavy brunette hair that was incredibly sensitive to humidity and from then on, they were mortal enemies. Regardless of comb or hairspray, Agent Clarke's hair responded to moisture by expanding and frizzing up.

And Derek found that an endless source of amusement.

"Reid," he called out as his coworker returned with his newly sugared coffee. "Do you have some statistics on Agent Clarke's hair?"

He opened his mouth, but then his eyes went wide as her narrowed glare turned on him.

"_I got you coffee- don't you dare_!" she whispered threateningly.

His head turned toward Morgan slightly, although his eyes were still locked on her glare and his eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't…know?"

Morgan peered around Megan and opened his arms at his friend.

"You're killin' me, kid."

She turned around and smiled.

"Some people know how to treat a lady, Morgan."

Derek grinned and put his hand in front of her face, pushing her back with two fingers. She rubbed her forehead with a frown on her face, but otherwise remained content with winning an argument against her rival.

Morgan smiled as he walked away.

He had let it slide. Seeing the pained look on Reid's face, wanting to burst with the statistics burning just behind his lips, was enough.

As Clarke turned to glare at him, she saw the door to her boss's office open and looked up to see Hotch giving them a look. With one swift hand motion, he beckoned them all to the conference room.

* * *

"Bluefield, Indiana. The first victim, Jordan Anderson, 16, was found dead behind an auto shop two days ago. He was killed on the 18th, but was found the next day after it had rained and all traces of fingerprints were washed away. He died of blood loss from stabs in the neck and chest.

"Then yesterday morning, Mayor Gregory Turner, 52, was found dead in his car, which was stopped in the middle of the street in front of his house, still running. Also died of blood loss and had stab wounds in the neck and chest.

"Both of the victims had what appears to be numbers carved into their skin," Hotch further explained, and pushed photographs of the victims toward the team and they leaned forward to examine them.

The first boy, Jordan, was lying on his back, his arms at his side, his legs bent under him. His hair and skin were soaked with rain and his blue eyes were large with fright. The rain had washed away the blood, so two clean stab wounds were clearly visible at the center of his neck and next to his sternum. His flannel shirt had been unbuttoned by the UnSub and the number 87 was engraved in his upper torso.

The next picture was far more gruesome than the photo of the teenager. The mayor of Bluefield was sitting in a Bentley, blood poured from an abrasion in his neck and chest. His button down shirt, like Jordan, had been opened, with his tie thrown over his shoulder to reveal another bloody number: 85.

"He's counting down his victims?" Morgan asked, his fingers tracing over the photo of the mayor.

"If so, where's number 86?" Clarke wondered, looking up.

"The police in Bluefield suspected as much. They've alerted the public and are searching around for another victim."

"You said the mayor was found in his car on the street?" Rossi asked.

"His car was only fifty yards from his home," Hotchner explained. "They think the UnSub could have spotted him from the park across the street. The other murder was only a block away from the local farmers' market."

"Public places," Morgan nodded. "Which stab wound came first?"

"The wound in the neck," Clarke answered and they looked at her. "They stab in the neck first, to keep them from screaming and drawing attention to themself. Then they aim for the heart. It's not overkill."

"They try to end it quickly," Reid said quietly and then his eyebrows knotted as he stared at the teenager's body in the picture. "There are scratches around the number. They look like hesitation marks."

"You think 87 was their first murder?" Clarke asked.

"I'm having Garcia check to see if this MO has surfaced in any other cases," Hotch said. "She'll be able to let us know if we're dealing with a seasoned veteran or not."

"He thinks he's going to get away with murdering 87 people, though?" Morgan asked, his eyebrows rising. "He's delusional."

"And why is 87 significant?" Rossi asked. "Why start from 87?"

"I'm unsure," Reid replied slowly, staring at the eight with tight eyes, thinking it looked strange for some reason. "It might stand for the year; maybe something important to the UnSub happened in 1987 and he doesn't want anyone to forget about it."

"One of the Unabomber's attacks occurred in '87," Morgan spoke up.

"So did the Moddle Street Massacre," Rossi said, folding his arms in thought.

"Along with the Baby Jessica incident, but it's going to be impossible to determine any significance until we find out a bit more about our UnSub," Hotch intervened, not wanting the team to get sidetracked on the mystery of the numbers carved into the chests of the victims.

"You think Baby Jessica is behind this?" Morgan asked, lip twitching with the effort to contain a broad smile.

"No," Hotch answered as stoically as expected, effectively washing the grins off his team's faces.

There was a beep and everyone looked down at the speakers, grateful for the end to the awkward silence, as Rossi pressed the button.

"What have you found, Garcia?"

"Jordan Anderson, 16, goes to the only high school in town, Bluefield High, and lives with his mother and two brothers. And- uh oh! Naughty Jordy has been charged with shoplifting and petty theft within the last year. I found an article of him from a local newspaper of a Best Buy robbery. When they caught him, he had a small flat screen TV and a blue ray player wrapped in tin foil totaling 400 dollars."

"And the mayor, Garcia?"

"Gregory Turner, 52, has been in office for nine years. He has a wife and two children, both daughters living in Indianapolis and one married. This guy must be all kinds of likable; he's been skimming money off the budget for his own retirement fund and they still keep electing him."

"How about the MO?"

"I'm afraid that's where my wealth of information ends. No numbers have been carved on the victims in any cases, open, cold or closed. Seems like you have yourself a numerically-inclined and completely original killer."

"Thank you Garcia," Hotch nodded, pleased with the new information. "We'll call you once we're in Bluefield."

"Have a safe flight, then, my darlings!" Garcia's voice sang out over the speakers before hanging up.

"So, one victim's young, one's old. Both white, both male, both had numbers carved into their skin," Morgan summed up. "And both had less-than-exemplary records."

"Dirty records," Reid mumbled, and the room quickly averted their eyes to stare at anything other than each other. Clarke looked at each of her colleagues' faces, not sure what to make of the pregnant pause.

"Victimology is better established, though," she piped up, unable to take the uncomfortable silence any longer. "At least we might be able to get a connection between the victims and the UnSub now."

"Clarke's right," Hotch nodded, standing up and collecting the papers on the round table. "The victims should be the first thing we look into once we arrive in Bluefield. Wheels up in thirty."

The team watched as their leader escaped the Round Table room, the files of their case clutched firmly in his grip. Reid, who still seemed troubled over what he had last said, flinched when Clarke gave his shoulder a small, encouraging squeeze. He gave her a tight grin in return and they made their way out of the room after Hotch.

Morgan made to follow them out but was distracted by the completely put-out expression on Rossi's face.

"Rossi? What's wrong, man?"

The elder agent's eyes narrowed and focused on his colleague's.

"52," he said with clear brevity, "is _not _old."

* * *

"The atomic number of francium."

"Number of years between the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Battle of Gettysburg."

"Number of tools the world's most multi-functional penknife contains."

"The sum of the squares of the first four primes."

"Age of the oldest NASCAR car driver."

"The opus number of the 24 Preludes and Fugues of Dmitri-"

"Punch!"

"Hey!"

Reid frowned, displeased with the interruption, and rubbed his sore shoulder as Morgan took a seat next to him, grinning.

"An eight years aged bottle of Bacardi and 7-Up," Clarke nodded her approval. "Otherwise known as an 87 Punch."

She leaned forward to flick Morgan's shoulder a moment later, however, with a reproachful glare.

"Don't hit him."

"Hypocrite," Morgan scowled, ignoring Reid's grumblings at his side. "You do realize it's worthless to keep going over the significance of the number 87, right? Most likely it's something personal to the UnSub that we won't be able to figure out."

"Doesn't hurt to cover our bases, though," Clarke shrugged, glancing out the window of the jet as they made their steady way to Bluefield, Indiana.

"But it does hurt to get hung up over it," Reid frowned, likewise staring out the window. "Having our attention diverted," he threw a brief but black look at Morgan as he fingered his injured shoulder, "to look for victim 86 might be what the UnSub wants."

"Or it might be a scare tactic," Morgan said, rubbing the back of his bald head. "What's the population?"

"2,539," Reid answered automatically.

"A sizable chunk of the community would be taken out if the UnSub has his way."

"Over three point four percent of the population," Reid nodded but stopped, blinking heavily. "Not that we would ever let that happen."

Morgan gave a large grin, elbowing Reid lightly in the spot he had previously hit him.

"That would not be our desired outcome, no."

"Knocky knocky, hope it's not a bad time," Garcia sounded from the safe confines of the laptop screen.

"Any time you're around could never be described as bad time, baby girl," Morgan said, motioning Hotch and Rossi over with a lazy hand wave.

"Don't I know it," Garcia smiled, batting her eyelashes at him. "But it's always nice to be reminded. I come bearing bad, worse, and weird news. Which would you prefer to hear first?"

"Give us the worst news," Hotch spoke up as he and Rossi came to stand at the table to join in on the conversation.

"Worse and weird news are contingent to the bad news, sir."

"Then the bad news, Garcia."

"There's been another murder," Penelope went straight to the point, recognizing her boss's no-nonsense tone of voice which was barely separable from his minimal-amount-of-nonsense tone. "Chief of Police Dan Kelly was found in the park this morning."

"Dan Kelly?" Hotch asked. "He was the one who contacted us about the murders."

"Yeah, he was sitting at a picnic table, stabs in the neck and chest."

"What's the worse news, then?"

"While the first two victims had bad boy streaks in them, our Chief hasn't so much as a coffee stain on his pristine record. I'll keep digging to see if I can find anything, but so far the man's coming out squeaky clean. And our weird news, girl and boys," Garcia went on, the rapid tapping of computer keys adding to the background noise, "is the number presented on the Chief's chest."

"Not our missing 86?" Morgan frowned, wondering if their UnSub's depravity included the inability to count backwards from 87.

"No, it would be a three."

"Three?" Clarke asked, her eyes widening.

"Sure thing, sister. I'll send you a picture in just a sec."

They glanced at each other.

"Were there any witnesses?" Rossi asked and they turned their focus back to the facts.

"No sir, same as the last two. Murdered in public spots but no witnesses. Your picture, my lady."

Garcia's face was instantly covered up by a grainy image of the latest victim and everyone's attention closed in on it, taking in the corpse of the heavy set man who had sought them out for help.

"I know the quality isn't the greatest; it's what the sheriff sent over to me."

"It's good, Garcia," Hotch said, eyes narrowing on the glistening number three visible on the Chief's pale chest. "Call us when you get more background on Kelly."

"Aye aye, sir," Garcia clucked, returning to the comforts of cyberspace as her webcam disconnected, leaving the picture of Dan Kelly on the desktop.

"Dave," Hotchner turned to his team, who were still clustered around the laptop, "I want you and Clarke at the newest crime scene when we hit the ground. Reid, Morgan, and I will start on the victims of the family to try to find some common denominator.

"And I don't think I have to tell you this," their leader's expression, if at all possible, became even more grave, "but this is a small town that has just lost a kid and two of their highest ranking officials. Our presence, while comforting, will only remind them of what they have lost. I don't anticipate any cooperation problems, but emotions will be running high."

Everyone nodded their acceptance of the plan and disbanded, Hotch returning to the files he had abandoned and Rossi opening up the book he had discarded to begin reading again.

"Three," Clarke moaned, rubbing her temples. "87 and 85 could make sense in theory. I somehow doubt we'll find 82 other bodies lying around somewhere."

"Very improbable," Reid nodded, unwittingly fingering Dmitri Shostakovich's Prelude and Fugue No. 8 on the tabletop. "There is a series of Fluke Meters containing those numbers, but I don't see the significance."

"Maybe it wasn't meant to be a three…maybe it was meant to be an eighty-something but he got spooked and ran before he could finish?" Clarke guessed hopefully.

The three agents glanced at Dan Kelly's corpse on the laptop screen, as if hoping he would somehow be able to tell them the significance of the number on his chest.

* * *

**akaccino's A/N**: Confused with some parts? Don't be. I promise everything will be explained in time. Also, updating-wise: Usually the first two chapters of a case fic will be posted within a day of each other. This is because the prologue is about half a page long and is just used to introduce the story, like how it is on the show. Every chapter, after chapter one, will be posted once a week. Usually on a Monday. What a great way to start off the week, with a lovely new chapter containing gruesome murders! Yay!

Also, reviews are, as always, appreciated!

**dieselwriter's A/N**: Yup, we got rid of Prentiss. Sorry. Sorta.

Stay tuned!


	3. Chapter Two

**akaccino's A/N**: That last episode was fabulous! Matthew did such an amazing job directing...what a gube. So now that we have the ending to the Doyle arc, we can safely and officially say that this story is AU, although it does not stray far from canon. Explanations are coming soon, just you wait. ( :

**dieselwriters's A/N**: As promised, here is your Monday update. Obligatory victimology and family interviewing ahoy!

Chapter Two

* * *

_Bluefield, IN  
April 21st_

"Thank God you're here," Sheriff Roger Harrison clasped Rossi's outstretched hand in both of his before shaking. "This is turning into a nightmare."

"SSA David Rossi," Rossi introduced himself before releasing the man's hand to introduce his colleague. "And this is Agent Megan Clarke."

"We're happy to help," Clarke stepped up to receive a handshake as well, trying to smile in what she hoped was empathetic and professional at the same time.

"Wish we didn't need it," Harrison sighed, leading the pair of agents over to the small crime scene. "But Bluefield's severely undermanned and hasn't seen a murder in nearly twenty years. Kelly knows when he's out of his league; figured he'd call up the best."

"Good thing he did," Rossi placed his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the bloody picnic table. "With Kelly's murder, we can officially declare that Bluefield has a serial killer on the loose."

"Did the coroner determine time of death?" Clarke asked, bending over to examine the expansive corpse of the Chief of Police.

"6:30 this morning," Harrison answered dutifully and gave a large sigh, his eyes avoiding the body. "Could hardly believe it when she told me. Dan was never a morning person."

"He didn't come out here often, this early in the morning?" Rossi spoke, eying the large and abandoned coffee cup on the table.

"Hell no," was the blunt reply. "He lives on the other side of town and it was colder than a brass suppository this morning. He only comes here when he's got a lot to think about."

"There are better places to think," Clarke said, and seeing the look Sheriff Harrison gave her, she muttered a quick, "sorry."

"He was found around nine o'clock by a couple of joggers," Harrison continued, seemingly unperturbed by the younger agent's quip.

"How about the mayor?"

"Around six in the morning yesterday. Found by a neighbor leaving for work an hour later. The teen was found the day before by a group of kids, but time of death was determined to be 6:30 on the night of the 18th."

"The auto shop employees didn't see him?" Rossi asked, wondering how well-hidden the boy would have had to have been to avoid detection.

"It's closed on Sundays. The kids like to go skateboarding in the back when they know they won't get chased off by the employees."

"Was anything missing off the victims?" Clarke asked, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

"Nothing stolen, no ma'am."

"I'd like to take a look at the first crime scene when we're done here," Rossi said, moving around the body of Dan Kelly to watch Clarke's examination. "See where the body was left."

"No problem. CSU's swept through it pretty thoroughly, but with the storm we just had, there wasn't much to tell. No weapon found, no fingerprints, no telling why the boy was even there to begin with."

"Rossi," Clarke interrupted, her fingers hesitating over the number etched into the Chief's chest. "There's a lot of blood here."

The agent joined her on the ground, watching as she pointed out the amount of blood around the large man's chest.

"He was a big guy," the Sheriff commented. "He was on blood thinners, too; had a heart attack a year back. Last bad news this town's had before this whole mess started."

"The wounds are deeper," Clarke said, carefully avoiding contact with the number carved into the corpse's flesh. "Reid said there were hesitation marks on the teenager's body, but that's certainly not the case here."

Harrison's face paled as his eyes finally fell onto the body of his old friend, taking in the words Agent Clarke spoke and seeing the evidence in front of him.

"Which means," Rossi sighed, straightening back up, "our UnSub's getting more comfortable with killing."

* * *

"He was a good boy," Mrs. Anderson spoke tearfully, wrapping her arms around herself in some futile attempt at a one-womanned hug. "He was just going through a phase. All sixteen-year-olds rebel; when Jack was 16 he spent more time stoned than sober and now he's an EMT."

Morgan nodded sympathetically, reaching out and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"We know, Mrs. Anderson, and you have our deepest condolences for your loss."

"Had Jordan made any new friends recently?" Reid asked the grieving mother, as focused on her protective body language as he was on her answers.

"He hadn't mentioned anyone," she shook her head, squeezing herself a little tighter in reassurance. "We don't get new people here all that often. Last I can remember was the Wilsons moving in down the street last year."

"So there hasn't been any strangers around town recently? Someone you don't recognize?"

The woman just shook her head again, watching the pair of them with red, doleful eyes.

"Are there any folks around here who keep to themselves?" Morgan jumped in. "Anyone you don't know too well?"

"Plenty of shy ones, sure. But we all still know each other…" she trailed off as her eyes suddenly clouded with fresh tears. "You don't think it's one of us?"

"We're not certain yet, ma'am," Morgan said reassuringly. "We're just trying to make sure we hit every possibility. Any of those shy people stick out to you? Any of them seem odd or dangerous?"

"Dangerous, no," she answered immediately, letting go of herself only a moment to scrub at her eyes. "Plenty of them are odd, but we all have our quirks. I can't see any of them doing this to Jordan."

"Where there any specific places Jordan frequented, Mrs. Anderson?" Reid asked, changing the subject.

"He had track practice after school most days, and there's not a lot to do around here on the weekends. Jordan would usually go to the movies with some friends or the abandoned bowling alley on Corinth Street."

"So there wouldn't be any reason for him to be at the auto shop?"

"We don't even use that one," Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head as tears threatened to spill from her eyes again. "Some of the middle schoolers skateboard back there on the weekends, but Jordan wasn't ever into that kind of thing."

"How about the farmer's market?"

"Jordan hardly ever went, but some of his friends work there."

Mrs. Anderson swallowed dryly and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Reid and Morgan glanced at each other a moment, feeling rather inadequate at easing her sufferings.

"Mrs. Anderson," Reid finally spoke up, "does the number 87 have any significance to you at all?"

She hiccupped and averted her gaze.

"Year Jordan's father and I were married," she said quietly. Neither Reid nor Morgan made any comment on his absence.

* * *

"Agent Hotchner," the bleached blonde offered a polite yet limp hand to the agent before leading him into the large, lavish sitting room. Hotch didn't have a hard time believing Garcia's findings on Mayor Turner's less-than-legal bump in pay; if the size of the house and Bentley in the driveway wasn't proof enough, the large diamond resting on Mrs. Turner's ring finger certainly was. "Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, water…anything?"

The woman looked confused as she pulled her short-sleeved jacket around her a little tighter. Hotch offered her a small half-smile as he took a seat on the plush sofa.

"Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Turner. I just have a couple of questions."

Mrs. Turner nodded but remained standing, her eyes trained to the floor. A barking dog could be heard outside, its booms deafening in the silence.

"What time did your husband usually leave for work, Mrs. Turner?" the agent started.

"7:40," she replied, placing her hands on the back of the leather recliner in front of her. "He had an early meeting on Monday…that's why he was out there when…."

Hotch watched as her hands played with the frayed blanket resting on the back of the recliner, fingering it as if trying to ingrain its feel.

"It wasn't normal for him to be leaving the house at six?" he prompted her to continue.

"No," she said jerkily. "I was still asleep when…I didn't even know anything was wrong until I heard the sirens."

"How often would you say he had these early morning meetings?"

"Not often," she shook her head. "Maybe once a month?"

Hotchner nodded, assured with the fact that the mayor had not been targeted specifically; the murder had occurred when the victim was doing something out of his routine.

"Does the number 85 mean anything to you, ma'am?"

She shook her head again, kneading the material beneath her hands.

"Our house number; 185 Juniper Street."

"Mrs. Turner," Hotch addressed her, suddenly noticing the basket in the corner of the room filled with broken tennis balls and other chew toys, "do you have a dog?"

"Yes," she looked surprised at the question and stole a subtle peak into the hallway, as if expecting her pet to be there. "A chocolate lab. I put him out in the backyard."

The barking dog reached Hotch's ears again, and something seemed to click in his mind.

"Is he temperamental?"

"Barks at everyone he doesn't know who walks by the house," she said fondly, the shadow of a smile lightening her features. "Drives Greg crazy—"

Fat tears dribbled down her cheeks, and she grasped the blanket in her hands with all her might.

* * *

Getting out of the car, Sheriff Harrison, Rossi, and Clarke crossed the concrete drive toward the auto shop. There were dark ruddy stains on the lot, an attempt to clean up the blood after the first murder.

"The boy was found here?" Rossi asked as they stopped around the crime scene.

Harrison nodded and Clarke pressed her fingers to the concrete near the blood stains.

"The blood's localized; he wasn't dragged here. It would be easy to drive in and drop him. Are we sure this is the scene of the murder and not a dump site?"

"It's hard to tell," Harrison said, taking a few steps toward the right. "Most of the blood was washed away, but the other two bodies hadn't been moved. Moving Kelly would have been a feat, mind…."

"This is our crime scene," Rossi agreed, opening the teen's file to show the others a picture of the corpse. "Look at the body, how the legs are bent underneath. That's natural, not positioned."

"Anyone could have seen, then," Clarke stated, looking down the street. "The UnSub didn't make any attempt to hide anything."

"A disorganized killer," Rossi said, closing the file back up, "who hasn't left evidence behind?"

"He's lucked out," Harrison inputted. "Certainly with the weather."

"And the time of day he chooses to strike," Clarke turned to the sheriff. "How busy is this street around 6:30, on any regular day?"

Harrison sighed and shook his head.

"Not very, especially on a Saturday night. The shop would have closed for the day and this isn't a busy street," he said, but then something made him stop. "Most people on this side of town would be down at the farmer's market."

Rossi and Clarke glanced at each other.

"Do you think Jordan was at the farmer's market?" Rossi asked.

He shrugged.

"Could have been, but they pack it in at six."

"What's the problem?" Clarke asked shaking her head slightly.

"Time of death was 6:30," Rossi said and Harrison nodded.

Clarke squinted in the sun, wind blowing past them.

"If he went to the farmer's market," Harrison said. "He would've left around 5:30. Has one of your men talked to his family?"

"Two of our agents were there, yeah," Clarke said and opened her phone. She took a step away from the two men and dialed Spencer's number.

"Hello?" Reid's voice sounded.

"Hey, Spencer. Have you finished interviewing Jordan's family?"

"Yeah, we're on our way to the mayor's crime scene, why?"

Clarke looked back at Rossi and Harrison. They were talking again.

"Do they know why Jordan might have been hanging around the auto shop?"

"His mom said there wasn't a connection. He didn't normally go to the farmer's market, either…uh, but some of his friends would go to help out. The auto shop is the scene of the murder then?"

"Definitely," Clark affirmed, scuffing her shoe on the pavement. "We just can't figure out why he was here to begin with."

The other end of the line was silent for a while, prompting Clarke to check to make sure the line hadn't been disconnected.

"Spencer? You still there?"

"Sorry," Reid replied, and she could practically hear the gears in his head whirring. "Are you still with Sheriff Harrison?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"Will you ask him about security at the market?"

Clarke blinked, processing what they already knew about the teenager.

"Naughty Jordy…" she mumbled, realization coming to her.

"Sorry?"

"He was stealing."

"That was my assumption, yes."

"I'll look into it. Thanks, Spencer."

"Not a problem."

"Sheriff Harrison," Clarke closed her phone and stepped forward, interrupting their conversation, "what's security like at the market?"

"Unnecessary," the sheriff looked at her in confusion. "You see any of the farmers around here? They're their own security."

"Did they find anything on Jordan's body?"

"His cell phone and wallet. The wallet was holding his school ID, driver's license, and five bucks; nothing looked off about it."

"Was anything reported missing at the market?"

"I wouldn't know…they brought me in for the murders. I can call up the station and ask."

"You think he was here stealing," Rossi surmised. "But there wasn't any money left at the scene."

"Nothing," the sheriff reiterated.

Clarke eyed the bloodstains once more, imagining the body of Jordan Anderson below her, the UnSub standing above him, bloodied knife in one hand and a cash box in the other.

"We need to know where it went."

* * *

**akaccino A/N**: Things startin' to get goooood. ( :

**dieselwriter's A/N**: There's a mystery afoot. Oh, naughty Jordy, what problems you have caused for yourself!


	4. Chapter Three

**akaccino's A/N**: Can't wait for Wednesday. D : Reid is going to be so distraught...( :

**dieselwriter's A/N**: I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing the beginning of it. You gotta love Reid and Morgan conversations.

Chapter Three

* * *

"Scoot over to the left."

"I thought you liked playing the UnSub?"

"I look better in a Bentley," Morgan threw a big grin over his shoulder at his colleague.

"It's a visualization, not an actual demonstration," Reid said, looking befuddled at the explanation.

"Yeah, I'm visualizing myself in the Bentley, and I like what I'm thinking," his smile expanded, laughing at Reid's grimace. "Now scram; I can see you when I look in my rearview mirror."

Reid took several steps to the left, understanding this was a conversation he wouldn't quite comprehend.

"Perfect," Morgan continued, pretending to put his hands on the wheel of a car as he walked backwards down the driveway. The Turners' dog was barking sporadically, alerting everyone in the area that there were people nearby who didn't belong.

"The only reason I'm going to stop for a stranger is if they're right in front of the car," he continued as he backed up into the street, pretending to change gears before surging forward.

"Street's wide enough that you could avoid me," Reid commented, stepping into the middle of the street to put his arms out wide on either side, showing off how much room they had.

"No skid marks, you don't jump in front of me," Morgan agreed, staring down at the unmarked road.

"You think he would be going fast enough to leave skid marks if he braked suddenly?"

"Turner's leaving on a Monday at six in the morning for a two hour meeting on budget cuts," Hotch called out across the lawn as he left the confines of the late Mayor Turner's home to approach his agents, "driving a Bentley and hocked up on caffeine. He's speeding."

"Jordan's body turned up last night. I'm cautious…I won't stop for just anyone," Morgan said, stopping his progress at Reid's side.

"Dog's not barking to wake up the wife," Hotch approached the two agents and stopped at the curb. "This UnSub's definitely local and familiar."

"I'm in the road, then," Reid said. "You're not going to see me in the dark walking on the sidewalk, especially if you're speeding."

"What are you doing in the road?"

"Enjoying the fact that it's six in the morning and no one's awake yet," Reid answered. "Walking, jogging, biking…"

"But you draw attention to yourself if I stop and roll the window down to talk to you," Morgan's eyebrows furrowed, pretending to put the car in park.

"If we work with the theory that this UnSub's disorganized, I don't even know you'd approach me," Reid put his hand up to his mouth, thinking. "Walking this path is a part of my daily routine."

Hotch's cell phone rang suddenly, and he walked away from their reenactment to answer it.

"Makes sense," Morgan nodded, keeping an eye on Hotch's stiff body language as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "This is what you normally do; park's right across the street. You'll run into the Chief tomorrow morning, and today you run into me while you're crossing the street."

"So this is the part where I get to kill you?"

Morgan narrowed his dark eyes at Reid, who gave him a small yet mischievous half-smile.

"This is why I normally play the UnSub, you know."

"I know," was Reid's mundane response. "If I'm crossing like you said, though, why would I start walking on the side of the street without the sidewalk?"

"You live on this side?" Morgan glanced down the line of houses next to the mayor's, seeing if any of them stood out to him in any ominous way.

"I hope so. That would certainly make our job easier."

"No such luck," Hotch jumped right back in, shutting his phone and clipping it back to his belt. "You're crossing the street, Reid, but you're not headed toward the park."

"Then where am I going?" the lanky agent asked, looking both ways down the street but unable to tell what would make the UnSub head in that direction.

"To 181 Juniper Street," the Unit Chief pointed out the dwelling, two houses down from the Turner's.

"Why?"

"You're returning the money Jordan Anderson stole from them."

Morgan and Reid exchanged significant looks.

"What?"

The corner of Hotch's mouth twitched at their simultaneously asked question before he motioned for them to follow him to the proper address.

"Garcia just called. There was a report of stolen money filed on the night of the 18th by Hap and Beverly Henderson. They called in the next morning, telling the police to drop the investigation because the cash box was returned, not a dime missing. They figured some kid took it and felt guilty about it afterwards."

"They were half right," Reid muttered as the trio of agents climbed the steps of the front porch and rang the bell.

Footsteps could be heard from the inside of the house and the release of a deadbolt sounded before the door opened, revealing a petite woman with short graying hair. She glanced nervously at her three tall visitors, as if she were wondering if she should slam the door on their faces and call out for help.

"Mrs. Henderson?" Hotch held up his credentials for her to see. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the FBI, and this is Agent Morgan and Reid. We were hoping you might be able to show us the cash box that was returned to you on the morning of the 19th."

Beverly Henderson visibly relaxed as she opened the door wider for the agents to enter the house.

"Certainly," she ushered them inside, glancing up and down the street before closing the door and locking it after them. "Can't be too careful, these days," she said in explanation, walking unsteadily down the hall.

"Do you make all these baskets yourself?" Reid asked politely, pausing to examine the craftsmanship of the wicker baskets lining the hallway.

"To sell at the market, yes," she replied, disappearing from view momentarily as she turned into one of the rooms off the main hallway. "It's just a hobby."

"It's very tightly woven," Reid's eyes narrowed on one of her pieces, "signifies higher quality. Do you use willow switches?"

Morgan smacked him over the head lightly just before Mrs. Henderson returned, clutching the cash box to her chest.

"Concentrate," he mumbled, even as the older woman gave the youngest agent a peculiar but pleased look.

"Willow and reed, when I can get my hands on it," she offered him the cash box. "The money's not inside anymore, but it was all there, I promise."

"Prints will have been contaminated, assuming they weren't already washed off in the rain," Reid said, handing the box over to Hotch.

The older agent immediately turned it over in his hands, examining it for missing clues. He opened it up and gave a sigh, presenting its insides to Morgan and Reid.

"Blood," Morgan said, identifying the dark, dried smears on the inside of the lid.

"Is there any way we can see the money that was inside, Mrs. Henderson?" Hotch asked, and she nodded emphatically, looking fearful at their findings before trotting down the hallway once again.

"So our UnSub returned it all," Morgan whispered, not wanting to be overheard by their hostess. "A sign of remorse?"

"Or just doing what they think is the right thing to do," Reid muttered, likewise keeping his voice low.

"A visionary."

"Most likely."

"I think we need to regroup, pool all the information we have," Hotch said, but was interrupted when an exclamation rang from the bedroom.

"I'm sorry!" Beverly shouted, entering the hallway once again with bills stuffed in one of her fists. "It's just…I hadn't even noticed before…."

She held up her findings for them, the small droplets of blood decorating the multiple green faces of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington easy to see.

"This blood…" she began, almost afraid to continue. "This isn't…the boy who died, Jordan Anderson…this isn't his blood, is it?"

They didn't answer immediately. She glanced at their expressions and bit her lip, her eyes tightening.

"Jordan didn't take it, did he?" she asked the group, looking concerned and weary.

"I'm afraid so, ma'am," Morgan said, sighing.

The woman clenched the money in her hand tighter, her soft gaze falling onto Reid's.

"You figure out who's behind this, and you can have all the baskets you want, son."

* * *

_Bluefield PD  
__April 21st_

"Based on the information we've gathered," Hotchner informed the four members of his team as they sat in the small but reclusive conference room, "we can conclude we are dealing with a disorganized serial killer, most likely a visionary suffering from some form of mental break."

"Psychotics are usually much more violent than this," Reid said, staring at the three photos of their current crime scenes. "Overkill would almost be considered a signature. MO would be more varied as well."

"Then we're talking mentally unstable," Rossi clasped his hands on top of the desk. "Anyone living with the UnSub would have noticed; they're definitely living alone."

"Death of a stable provider could be the stressor," Morgan hypothesized.

"Might also mean the UnSub's off their meds," Clarke added, "if the provider was regulating them."

"Morgan, get Garcia on the line," Hotch said, taking a seat for himself. "We need to know everyone in this town who passed away recently and who's been on antipsychotics at any point in time."

"On it," the aforementioned agent said, rising from his seat and pulling out his cell phone to dial the first number on his speed dial.

"Tell me what you want and I'll give you what you _really_ need," the technical analyst whispered seductively as a greeting.

"Be still my heart!" Morgan exclaimed, hand covering his chest despite the fact she had no way of seeing him. "Truer words were never spoken."

"Until now," she replied, and Morgan smiled at the mental image he received of her twirling one of her fuzzy neon pens in her hand. "What can I do for you, my sweet? Besides the obvious."

"Someone's added some extra snark in her martini this evening."

"Oh please, Morgan, you know I'm a cosmo girl. And I'm starting to think this is just a social call."

"I wish it was, baby girl. I need to know who in Bluefield has passed away recently."

"I'm going to need a timeframe on that one, hun," Garcia said, tapping away viciously at her keyboard.

"Start with a year back," Morgan answered, "and let me know—"

"Two steps ahead of you, slow poke. I've got 37 names for you."

"How about within the last six months?"

There was a pause before Garcia answered with the number 18.

"We need to know who's succeeding those 18 and if any of them were taking antipsychotics."

"Oh, medical records, my favorite," Garcia said, adjusting herself on her seat. "This may take a few—"

Flashing red words appeared across her screen and she frowned in disappointment.

"Or not. No luck on this end."

"Try the 37 names, then," Morgan's brows furrowed.

"Nothing, nada, zilch," Garcia said after a few moments. "I can look back later if you want?"

"Is _anyone_ in this town on antipsych meds?"

Garcia clicked her mouse on a new program and felt increasingly frustrated by the lack of information her normally info-abundant computer was providing.

"Some promethazine for motion sickness...but nothing to treat schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. If anyone's on an antipsychotic they're not getting them from any pharmacy in Bluefield. I can check surrounding cities if you'd like, but it'll take time."

"Do your thing, baby girl, and hit me up in the morning. We'll be up early to stake out the park, so you won't be waking me up."

"Don't I wish I would be the one waking you up," she sighed wistfully before the line disconnected.

"Garcia couldn't pull up anything," Morgan said upon re-entering the room. He frowned at the Sheriff that had stolen his seat in his absence before continuing. "She'll keep searching, though."

Hotch nodded and turned towards the evidence board.

"Mayor Turner's crime scene suggests the UnSub is someone who doesn't pose a threat. Jordan Anderson had just shown up dead the day before, so he would have been cautious had it been anyone he thought imposing."

"But the UnSub has to have the physical capability to wield a knife with deadly force against a teenager and two full grown men," Clarke said. "Jordan and Kelly could have been blitz attacked, but the mayor would have seen it coming."

"I think we need to consider the fact that our UnSub's female," Rossi concluded, receiving a few looks that made him elaborate. "Just look at some of the female officers out there."

He directed his gaze towards two female deputies clustered around a computer. One looked as though she could have gone out for strong safety in the NFL and been quite successful, and the other made Reid subconsciously shrink in his seat in primal fear.

"She'd have to be quite a bit smaller to appear less intimidating," Hotch said, folding his arms. "But she'd certainly have the ability to execute these murders if the psychothapy were severe enough and if she's working a physically demanding job."

"It's very likely she was working at the farmer's market the evening Jordan Anderson was murdered," Reid said. "It's also possible that the psychothapy would have caused the UnSub to feel threatened by the target. Something in her mind views the victims as dangerous…she might even see killing them as an act of self-defense."

"God tells her these men are dangerous and she acts out," Morgan added. "We need to interview everyone that was at that farmer's market last Saturday. One of them has to be our UnSub."

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow," Hotch said, checking the time and wincing at the surprisingly late hour. "We'll release our preliminary profile tonight. With any luck, though, we won't need it; if the UnSub sticks to her routine, we'll have her in custody tomorrow morning."

* * *

"We don't have all the details we'd like to have before releasing the profile, but we need to alert the public," Hotch said to the small group of men and women that made up the Bluefield police force. "Here's what we do know: We believe the UnSub is a female, anywhere from age 20 to 40. Due to the nature of her murders, we know she's physically fit but mentally unstable. Our thinking is that whoever was taking care of her, provided her medication."

"_Was _taking care of her?" one of the cops asked.

"We think the death of that provider was the stressor for our UnSub."

"We believe the UnSub is a disorganized killer suffering from delusions," Morgan continued to deliver the profile. "Despite this disorganization, we believe she is adamant to sticking to a routine that is ingrained in her. More than likely her care provider stuck her on a strict regimen that she will keep to. This is probably why you're having a hard time thinking of women who fit the profile, because she seems like she's doing what she always does."

"Most disorganized killers have a below average intelligence," Reid spoke, one hand in his pocket, the other gesticulating. "And they are also reclusive. They keep to themselves, live alone, and generally remain quiet.

"Although she's withdrawn, you would have noticed something off about her whenever she was around," Clarke added. "More than likely she's stopped caring about her personal hygiene. Her hair will be matted and her clothes won't be washed. She might even be homeless."

"She's probably suffering from delusions of persecution, thinking someone is out to get her," Reid elaborated. "Seeing Jordan Anderson steal money from the farmer's market right in front of her would have provided evidence for her paranoia, solidifying it, and triggered her homicidal actions. She returned the cash box to the Hendersons household the next day, which fits the visionary serial killer profile: a voice in her head, more than likely God's voice, is telling her to do the right thing, which included killing these people as well as returning the money."

"What about the numbers?" another cop interrupted.

The team exchanged glances with one another except Hotchner.

"We believe the numbers are the manifestation of the wishes of the voices the UnSub hears. Right now we're focusing on the UnSub, not what she's hearing," he said, stony-faced. "When we have the UnSub detained, everything else will make better sense."

Unhappy with the lack of 'interesting' information, the cop gave a small huff and turned away.

Hotch set his jaw and Rossi stepped in.

"We'd like to stress that, while the UnSub is hostile, she is not in her right mind. She can certainly be put right with medication, and I know you have lost a lot of good friends in this community, but this UnSub is also a part of Bluefield and she needs help."

Anxious glances could be picked out of the crowd now, all having instantly sobered up at the mention of their fallen Chief of Police.

"Thank you, and we'll see you in the morning," Rossi concluded with a nod, dismissing the room of officers.

"That's still not much to go on," one of the officers muttered as the room began to clear out.

"It's all we have to go on right now," Hotchner said in an authoritative voice, an underlying annoyance coloring his tone. He hated when people suggested they weren't doing everything in their power to help aid in the capture of the criminal.

"We'll get her tomorrow," Sheriff Harrison spoke up. "Then we can put all this behind us."

* * *

**akaccino's A/N**: Not the most exciting chapter, but we got the profile! : D Thanks for y'all who favorited/alerted/reviewed this story. Good to know our things are being read. ; D

**dieselwriter's A/N**: A bit of a cliffhanger...kinda...sorta...not really. :\ Things will be picking up rather shortly, though. Hope you are enjoying the ride so far. ;)


	5. Chapter Four

**akaccino's A/N**: Keep in mind, this is written pre-Doyle/Prentiss. Happy reading!

**dieselwriter's A/N: **I love the beginning again! :)

Chapter Four

* * *

_Bluefield Memorial Park  
__April 22__nd_

"Well good morning Agent Clarke," Morgan didn't even attempt to hide the toothy grin as he took in his newest colleague's appearance. "Sleep well?"

"I hate sleeping in creepy motels, knowing there's a serial killer on the loose," she replied in a dark tone, not bothering to hide her frustrations. "My door didn't even have a dead bolt."

"At least you could close your window," Reid approached, the dark circles under his eyes looking even more pronounced at the early morning hour. "Mine was jammed and open all night…I think a bat might have stowed away in the shower."

"Unless it found shelter in Clarke's hair," Morgan laughed as he dodged a poorly aimed swat of the female agent's hand, "but then how would you notice?"

"I come bearing gifts," Rossi approached his teammates, toting a cup carrier holding four cups of coffee in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. He took a glance at the mutinous look on Clarke's face and blinked. "Sleep well?"

"Oh, laugh it up," she reached for the cup closest to her as Morgan crowed and made a revolted face after taking a sip. "I think I just got a cavity."

"That would be because that one was meant for Reid," Rossi remarked, tapping the lid of the cup to show the _R _inked on it. "_This _would be yours."

"Thanks," was her mumbled reply as she received her cup, complete with an inscribed _C _on the plastic lid, and handed Spencer his cup without looking at him. "Man, I just hope our UnSub shows up. It's going to be the only worthwhile part to waking up at this God-forsaken hour."

"This'll be your first time on the front line, won't it?" Morgan asked, taking his own cup from the caddy. "You excited?"

Her male agents watched with intrigue as her face reddened.

"I'm freezing," was her response as she took more sips of her coffee to fight off the bitterly cold morning.

"Morgan's right, though; you should be prepared. The profile says she'll come," Reid said, taking a tentative sip of his coffee and smiled at the taste. "I think this is the best cup of coffee I've ever had on assignment."

"You can thank Hap Henderson for that one," Rossi said. "He opened his café up early just for us and is far more generous with his sugar than any Starbucks I've been to."

"Are we ready to go?" Hotchner's polished heels were quickly clouded by the dirt from the dirt-paved parking lot as he stepped out of the black sedan. He glanced at the paper bag in Rossi's hand with a shrewd eye.

"Can't have an early morning stake out without breakfast," Rossi shrugged off the unit chief's gaze. "I brought enough to share."

When the Unit Chief remained silent for several moments, Rossi quickly changed the subject.

"How's the set up going?"

"Smoothly, so far," he finally responded, stress obvious in his expression. "We have several officers hiding out in the park. Morgan and I will be joining them. Reid, I want you with Sheriff Harrison patrolling Juniper Street. Dave and Clarke, I want you stationed in the parking lot."

"The parking lot?" Clarke repeated, looking crestfallen. "I'm not going to be out there with you?"

Her male colleagues looked at her with varying expressions, but Hotchner did not hesitate.

"I'd prefer you and Rossi back in the sedan," he said in a tone that suggested that she shouldn't complain.

"But—" she protested softly, knowing full well the profile and the extreme unlikelihood of the UnSub having the capability to drive. The probability of seeing any action in the parking lot was practically zero.

Clarke had noticed the signs of secrets between the team, ever since she had arrived at the BAU to replace a fallen agent, but she never commented on it. She allowed the secrets, the glances she didn't understand, the overprotectiveness.

But this seemed more personal than the others. She couldn't help but think her boss wanted the oldest and the female out of the way.

Rossi touched her shoulder.

"Don't argue. Let's go."

"I thought you were going to share?" Morgan called out, raising his eyebrows and eying the bag in Rossi's hand meaningfully.

"I will, with Clarke," he clarified. "We also get the added bonus of heated seats."

Her torn expression wasn't missed on her team members. Morgan initially looked more annoyed with the loss of breakfast than anything else, but his avoidance of her gaze told her he sympathized with her plight. Reid watched her as she left, concern in his eyes, but he flashed her a brief, encouraging smile before he turned to head toward the Sheriff's unmarked car.

Clarke sighed and followed Rossi back to the sedan and got into the passenger's seat.

It was quiet for a moment until Rossi looked over at her and smiled.

"Bear claw?" he offered her the bag, and she quirked a smile as she accepted.

"Thanks," she murmured, breaking a piece off the pastry to eat.

"It makes him feel better, you know," he said nonchalantly as he pulled out a bear claw for himself. "He's protective of his family. Don't take it personally."

"But how can't I?" she asked before sighing. She let a moment go by before asking, "Is this about…the agent you lost?"

Although David Rossi didn't change expression as he continued to eat his early breakfast, Clarke gathered from working with him for weeks now that she had struck a nerve. His eyes turned somber before he nodded.

"Yes…it has everything to do with her."

Clarke nodded as well. She had tiptoed around this conversation because she didn't want to feel like an outsider prying into their business, trying to take the place of a family member. Hell, she would have avoided any dealings with the past tragedy altogether if she could have her way, but she knew in this line of work that keeping secrets was an impossibility. All she really wanted was to be accepted, so that they might eventually obtain complete honesty with one another.

"Sh…Should I know anything about her?" Clarke asked, feeling as if she was walking on bubble wrap with an UnSub nearby, not wanting to offend him.

He sighed, wiping sticky fingers on a napkin. His half eaten pastry lay on his lap, momentarily forgotten.

"Our female agents don't seem to stick around for long," he said eventually. "Apart from Garcia, that is, but I don't think you could pay her to stay away from all of us."

Clarke smiled fondly for her only female comrade in the BAU.

"But with Emily…we all feel responsible for what happened to her," he continued slowly, picking his words delicately and deliberately. "We're all dealing with it in our own ways. We've all come to a mutual conclusion, as you've already guessed, to not let it happen again….which is why you feel like we're babying you."

"I don't feel that way," she reassured softly. "In fact, it's almost…nice, I guess, to know you guys care that much. I just want to feel like…I want everyone to trust me, not feel like they need to constantly worry about me."

Vulnerable and uncomfortable, Clarke crammed a large amount of her bear claw into her mouth and looked out the window. The older agent stared at her puffy-cheeked profile with an affectionate smile, remaining silent. He took a sip of coffee before turning his attention back to the others.

Hotch was ordering a group of armed men across the park and Rossi found a sad amusement in his usual seriousness.

"Did you know that Aaron was once married?" he asked and Clarke, still chewing, reluctantly shook her head. Rossi looked over at her and smiled again.

"He was, to a beautiful woman named Haley." Clarke swallowed with some difficulty and smiled slightly, not sure where he was going with it. "She died. Murdered, by a serial killer dubbed 'The Reaper.'"

Clarke's face fell and her eyes found her boss. Rigid, tight-mouthed, and serious, he directed those around him within earshot. Imagining him with a wife was hard, only because she could not see past the stone-cold wall he built around himself to guard his emotions from the cruelty of his career. Clarke's eyes tightened, wondering about him.

"We promise not to profile each other," Rossi warned lightly and Clarke turned back to him, obviously embarrassed. He waved away her worry with a hand. "But it becomes part of who we are. We've lost a lot of agents since I've known Aaron and he always deals with it the same way: by learning from it to make sure it doesn't happen again. He protects the people who remind him of them."

"Thank you," she whispered in the silence of the car, grateful for someone letting her in.

"Not a problem," he gave her a knowing smile before biting into his bear claw once again with a satisfied moan. "Damn, I may end up retiring here. Why does everything taste so much better here than it does at home?"

* * *

The sun rose in the sky and time ticked by slowly. Everyone seemed on edge as six o'clock came and went without a single person entering the park. Certainly the news of the recent murders made the park all but quarantined.

More time passed, minutes, hours. Baited breath and stilled silence proved an overwhelming stress for the officers. Nine o'clock arrived and the sun was doing a quick job of chasing the cold morning away, but the unexpected heat and present anxieties caused the men and women to perspire.

"Hotch?"

"What is it? Do you see anything?"

"No, man, I just had a question for you."

"Ask it later."

Morgan watched his boss shift to better conceal himself behind a large shrub.

"It's nine, Hotch; I don't think she's coming."

"She's probably just late," he said. "She wouldn't break routine."

"She would if she's having an episode," Morgan replied. "She's off her meds and unstable. We'd do better calling Garcia and seeing if she has any new info."

"She'd call us if she had anything."

"Then we ought to find the witnesses at the market and give them the profile, see if anyone fits."

Hotch pursed his lips in contemplation.

"We'll give it another hour."

Minutes trickled by before Derek couldn't take it anymore.

"Clarke should've been out here," he blurted, mostly for something to do. They'd been standing in the cold for the past four hours without so much as a squirrel crossing their path.

The hard stare he received from his boss made him elaborate on his statement.

"She's been here for over a month, Hotch. She knows the ropes now; you've gotta give her some practical experience in the field."

"She has plenty of experience in the field," Hotch said sternly. "She was a sniper before she came to us."

"Don't remind me," Morgan muttered darkly. He had yet to live down the fact that she was a much better shot than he could ever hope to be. "You have yet to put her in the front line with us, though."

"And I would prefer her first experience to not involve a mentally unstable UnSub."

"All the UnSubs have mental problems, in one way or another," Morgan reminded him. "She doesn't complain, Hotch, but I know it's eating her up inside. How long are you going to leave her on the burner?"

"Clarke will have her chance," Hotch said. "And I don't appreciate the criticism of my decisions, Morgan."

"It's not a criticism," the dark agent tried to keep his tone even. "I'm just concerned for Clarke is all. You're making her feel like an outsider."

"You all get along well with her," Hotch said, voice low as he eyed a flying ant suspiciously.

"_You _haven't spent five minutes alone with her since she got here. I know you don't want to get close—"

"That's enough."

He didn't speak with any particular fierceness, but Morgan had learned a long time ago that that particular volatile tone was one that shouldn't be messed with.

"We'll give it another hour," he continued. "If she doesn't show, we'll regroup and determine what to do next."

Morgan approved of the plan, keeping a vigilant eye on his surroundings for an UnSub he was quite certain wouldn't show up.

* * *

Spencer tipped his beyond empty cup of coffee, hoping that somehow he might be greeted with a remaining drop of his sweet nectar. He was sadly disappointed.

"Nobody's going to be out when there's a serial killer on the loose," Sheriff Harrison spoke to the otherwise silent car, "especially in the place where two of the three murders happened."

"We can only hope that the UnSub sticks to her routine," Reid replied, placing his cup back in one of the car's cup holders morosely. "She wouldn't care what would seem suspicious."

"Maybe her routine's different on Wednesdays," Harrison said, leaning his forehead on the window.

"I don't think she'd be able to keep days of the week separate with this level of psychosis. It's more likely she's having an episode. We should call it and get to interviewing people from the market."

"If you're looking for market employees, most are going to live on the outskirts of town. More farmland out there."

Reid nodded his understanding and sighed. Hotch really should have pulled the plug on this operation by now to exert the manpower on other projects.

"Is there any particular place vagrants frequent?" Reid asked, fingering the letter _R _on the lid of his coffee cup optimistically, clearly still in denial about its contents.

"We get calls to collect 'em every now and then hiding out in barns," the Sheriff answered, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "With such a small town, though, you're not going to get all that many homeless people. They take care of each other up here."

"We'll have to go door-to-door, then," Reid surmised. His phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket and he jumped, startled, before fishing it out and holding it up to his ear. "Reid here."

In the quiet of the car, the voice of technical analyst Penelope Garcia could be heard by both occupants.

"And a good morning to you, Dr. Reid. How goes UnSub hunting?"

"Not well. How's it going on your end?"

"Equally disappointing," she replied, sounding displeased with herself. "I was up late for you and the best I got was a set of eight-year-old twins on Lamictal. As far as I can tell, Bluefield should be completely freak-free."

Sheriff Harrison's eyes narrowed and Reid felt a slow flush creep over him.

"You have the Sheriff as well as myself, Garcia."

"And why was I not informed sooner that this would be a threesome?" she huffed, sounding altogether serious. "I don't like to share."

"Our UnSub's going undiagnosed," Reid said, trying to divert the conversation even though he felt rather hot and bothered. The Sheriff wasn't helping the fact by looking as though someone had hit him over the head with a sledgehammer. "Garcia, one of the parents of our UnSub probably had some form of mental disorder. If that other parent was undiagnosed as well, it's likely both parents have died. Can you get me a list of single females in Bluefield with both parents deceased?"

"On it, my man. Let me hit you back later."

"Thanks, Garcia," Reid said before closing his phone. He turned to Harrison, who still looked taken aback. "Sorry about that. Our technical analyst is a little…"

"Insane?"

"Eccentric."

Both men stared at each other for a few awkward moments before Reid flipped his phone back open to call Rossi with the news.

* * *

"For someone who doesn't care about getting caught, she sure is doing a damn good job of avoiding detection," Sheriff Harrison grumbled as he sat, tapping his fingers on the desk.

Most of the remaining officers at headquarters seemed to feel the same way, if their agitated movements were anything to go by. The strong safety nee female deputy was looking particularly fierce as she crushed an empty Diet Coke can in her hand before tossing it in a blue recycling bin.

"Luck and circumstance," Rossi shrugged, diverting his gaze from the intimidating site. "Probably one of the luckiest disorganized UnSub's I've ever come across."

"Lucky us," the sheriff complained, stretching his sore and stiff muscles. Hanging out in a car for six hours with a rather talkative doctor was _not _the way he enjoyed spending his Wednesday mornings.

Rossi watched, bored, as Hotch and Reid guided Hap and Beverly Henderson through the list of 153 single females with dead parents living in Bluefield that Garcia had sent to them an hour ago. The Hendersons were surprisingly efficient at remembering exactly who worked the farmer's market regularly and were thus successful at eliminating quantities of names from the list for them.

After narrowing down the first list, comprising 50 names, to seven, Hotch had sent Clarke and Morgan to question those seven highlighted names, and Harrison and Rossi were waiting patiently to receive the modified second list of suspects to track down.

"I still wish we had more cars out patrolling the streets," the sheriff said with a heavy sigh.

"The UnSub's cooped up at home," Rossi spoke with the assurance years of profiling with the FBI instilled within him. "The only good those cops are doing out there is reassuring the public."

"There's only going to be one way to reassure the public," Harrison rose from his seat as Spencer did likewise from the conference room, a highlighted list of names in his grasp. "Looks like we're on."

* * *

**akaccino's A/N: **Things only take off from here! ( : Thanks for reading and kindly leave a review!

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Teeheehee...getting closer and closer to the killer...look forward to next Monday!


	6. Chapter Five

**As you most can tell, FF was unable to log either of us in until now. Sorry for the delay!**

**akaccino's A/N: **Quite unfortunate that dieselwriter could not take part in introducing this chapter. We had both been looking forward to posting it to read y'alls reactions. She's currently under a mountain of work. Joy of joys. So do her a favor and leave a review! Speaking of which, thank you so much to **Rabirhek** for the such a sweet review!

Enjoy our favorite chapter, y'all!

Chapter Five

* * *

Clarke sighed in defeat as Morgan drove down the old street. Of the fifty names on their list, seven had been highlighted to be checked out and six had been cleared thus far: none having had mental illness or any helpful knowledge of the murders. Hotchner, Reid, Rossi, and Harrison had had similar bad luck and already returned to the station. Every trail Garcia had sent them thus far had gone cold.

Parking just short of the neighboring church in front of the final suspect's house, the two agents exited their sedan and pulled on their jackets. Although exceptionally warm for April in the day, the sun had nearly disappeared behind the trees and the bitter cold from the early morning had returned to creep into their bones.

"Hey, Morgan," Clarke said as they crossed the recently-watered and thus slick grass of the yard of the final suspect, "most disorganized killers don't have well-tended gardens in their front yards, do they?"

The yellow, purple, and pink wildflowers were sprouting, the bed still moist and unblemished by weeds.

"Well, she lives next to a church," he said, glancing back at the building. "She obviously cares about what people think of her home. So no, doesn't exactly strike me as disorganized."

Climbing the three porch steps to the house, Morgan rang the doorbell and Clarke examined a sign next to her door reading 'God, Bless This House and All Who Enter."

"This seems like a waste of time," Clarke sighed. "This woman obviously isn't our UnSub."

"You never know, the church could be helping her out with the yard," Morgan shrugged and rang the doorbell again. "We shouldn't rule out anyone. If anything, she could have information…that is, if she's _home_," he stabbed the doorbell a third time.

Church bells chimed as the service ended and Clarke glanced at Morgan. They moved toward the church as the doors opened and people started filtering out.

A light-brown haired woman, identical to the picture Garcia had sent to them, exited the building a moment later with a group of people in front of her and the agents approached her.

"Excuse me," Morgan apologized as he parted a group of elderly women who eyed him in interest while he surged forward. "Kimberly Hughes?"

Kimberly looked up at the pair of them and her eyes widened.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Hi, we're from the FBI," they held up their badges. "I'm Agent Morgan and this is Agent Clarke. Do you have a minute?"

"FBI?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

"We're working the case of the three murders that occurred recently. If you don't mind, we just have a few questions to ask you."

She nodded and invited them inside her home.

"You have a nice place here," Clarke commented as they headed up toward the house.

"Thank you," she responded, ascending the stairs. "It was my parents' before they passed away."

Morgan's eyebrows furrowed and he and Clarke shared a glance.

"That's too bad, I'm sorry," Morgan said, watching her reaction as she unlocked the door.

"Oh yes," she said sadly, opening the door and standing aside for them to enter. "But they were not afraid. They knew God was calling them. It was actually quite peaceful."

Entering the home, Agent Clarke looked behind as the brunette shut the door and locked it behind them.

* * *

Sitting in the Bluefield Police Department, Spencer Reid studied the photos of the victims, his eyes tight in concentration. He stared at the numbers, engraved brutally in each of the victim's eerily pale skin. With the butt of his pen, he traced the 8 on the young boy's photo, still convinced something was off about it.

Rossi joined him in the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. He took the seat across from Reid and sipped, glancing at him.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

Reid did not respond, but it did not concern the older agent. Once Reid's gears were turning, his mind was in a different place and his awareness of those around him dimmed considerably.

"Rossi, does this number look strange to you?" he asked, spinning the photo so he could see it fully. Rossi leaned forward and shrugged.

"Why do you ask?"

Turning the picture back around, Reid's eyebrows furrowed again. He traced the figure 8 over and over again, trying to see it in a different way.

Frustrated, he leaned back in his chair and picked up his refilled coffee cup from this morning. He picked up the pen and traced the letter R on the lid.

"Reid, I don't think we should get hung up on the numbers. There is a killer out there and we need to focus more on the—"

But Reid was not listening. His mouth dropped open, his widening eyes on his coffee cup.

Suddenly, he stood up excitedly.

"_Cup_!" he cried out and startled Rossi to his feet as well.

"What?" he asked, and Hotchner joined them, hearing Reid's outburst.

"You wrote an '_R_' on my coffee cup!"

The older men glanced each other.

"I'm sorry…?"

"Reid where are you going with this?" Hotch asked seriously.

Reid paced around, gesturing widely.

"The coffee cup, the one that Megan accidently drank out of—"

"You're still mad about that?" Rossi asked, lost.

"No, no, no!" Reid huffed. "You marked it with 'R', for Reid. It was a _letter_, not a number!"

Slightly put-out by the other agents' less than excitable reaction at his stroke of brilliance, he picked up the photos of the victims.

"Look! It's not an 87 on Jordan's chest— it's _B_7! I knew there was something off about it!"

He looked imploringly at the victims' photos beneath him, willing the meaning of this discovery out of them.

Jordan Anderson, B7, the thief. Gregory Turner, B5, the mayor. Dan Kelly, 3, the ample Chief of Police.

Reid felt his adrenaline surge once again as the pieces finally fit.

"Reid—?"

"Circles!" His voice rose several octaves in his excitement.

Hotch and Rossi stared at him blankly.

"Okay, okay," Reid said hurriedly. "_Inferno_ is an allegory of Dante Alighieri's journey through the nine circles of suffering in Hell, guided by the Roman poet Virgil—"

"We know what Dante's Inferno is," Hotch said, trying to speed up the process and figure out what Reid was trying to communicate to them. "Go on."

"Right, right," he continued, his words blending into one another. "In Dante's Inferno, the circles are concentric and represent a gradual increase in wickedness, culminating to the center of the earth where Satan is held in bondage. An example: the first circle of Hell is limbo, which belongs to unbaptized and virtuous pagans who did not accept Christ. Three of the circles have subcategories, or subcircles. And that would be circles seven, eight, and nine."

"Get to the point, Reid," Hotch said, irritation edging into his voice.

"The eighth circle punishes sins involving conscious fraud," he rushed, "and it divides into 10 subcircles called _Bolgie_, or ditches of stone. _Bolgia_ 1 is for pimps and seducers, _Bolgia _4 is for sorcerers and other false prophets, and _Bolgia 7_," he concluded, lifting the picture of Jordan once again, tapping on the now clear B7 inked red in his skin, "is reserved for thieves."

"Jordan was stealing from the farmer's market," Rossi said, his eyes widening, looking at Hotchner. "And the UnSub saw him."

"What about the others?" Hotch asked. "The mayor and the Chief of Police?"

Reid picked up the other photos.

"Circle 3," he said, pointing to the Chief of Police. "Gluttony."

Rossi nodded his quick understanding.

"He was eating breakfast at the park," he said. "She's killing these people based on what she sees as sins. It's not personal at all."

"The mayor?" Hotch looked to Reid.

"_Bolgia_ 5," Reid finally finished, arriving to the mayor's photo. "For corrupt politicians."

Hotchner's eyebrows rose.

"That's why there were no skid marks on the road," he said to them. "The UnSub was returning the stolen money that she took after killing Jordan to the Hendersons and the mayor saw her. He slowed down and maybe he suggested he could take it to them for her."

"That set her off," Rossi completed. "When she feels threatened by their sins, she kills them and puts them where they belong by writing it on them. She sees it as her duty."

"Terrific work, Reid," Hotch said, giving him a nod as he flipped open his phone.

Reid gave a faint smile, almost breathless, and let the photos fall to the table.

"Garcia. I need you to take the list of all the single females and narrow it by those who have a background in theology."

"And that would be…," she said, fast typing in the background. "One result: Jamie Franklin. Age 34, single, Caucasian. Unemployed. Homeschooled, majored in theology at the community college in the next town over…her mother committed suicide back in '95 and her father died three years ago due to heart failure, leaving his farm to her."

"Address, Garcia?"

"132 Povitch Lane."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Garcia."

"A pleasure to serve you," she chirped, her featherly pink pen reaching to hang up, but halted suddenly and Garcia's voice rang out again. "Wait! Jamie Franklin was one of the names on the list I gave you. Do you think…?"

"She was on Morgan and Clarke's list," Reid frowned as he closed his eyes, having read the potential UnSub's name on their sheet but being unable to recall if her name had been highlighted.

Suddenly, there was a beep on the other line and Hotch's face fell.

"It's Morgan. I'll get back to you Garcia," he said quickly.

"They could be at the UnSub's house right now," Rossi said apprehensively as Hotch answered the other line.

"Morgan—"

"Hotch," Morgan's winded voice sounded over the speakers. "We know who the UnSub is."

* * *

"Ms. Hughes," Clarke asked, taking a seat on the floral couch in her living room. "Did you know any of the victims very well?"

Kimberly Hughes got a glass of water before joining Clarke and Morgan. She took a seat on a chair and crossed her legs, shaking her head.

"Not very well. Jordan would go with his mother and brothers to Sunday services sometimes when she forced him to, but other than that, I didn't know them all that well. To be honest, I don't know anyone that well that doesn't go to the church often."

They glanced at each other.

"Ms. Hughes—"

"Please," she said, "call me Kimberly."

Clarke smiled.

"Kimberly. How many times a week do you spend at the church?"

"Oh, every day except Saturdays. I hold a Bible study on Mondays and Wednesdays. Tuesday and Thursday are devoted to choir practice and I lead a prayer group on Fridays."

"Why, may I ask," Morgan said, curious, "do you run all the meetings?"

Kimberly smiled serenely.

"It's what God called me to do. Ever since Mr. Franklin passed away, I felt it was my Christian duty to take his position. He did so much for the church when he was alive and his poor daughter couldn't do it—"

"When did Mr. Franklin pass away?" Clarke asked suddenly.

She sat up a little straighter in her chair, a bit ruffled by Agent Clarke's bluntness.

"Three years ago," she answered stoutly. "It was a tragic loss for this town. He was a great man."

"Three years ago," Clarke repeated softly, feeling that initial thrill of discovery leave her rapidly. They discussed the death of a parent could be a stressor for the UnSub, but if it happened three years ago, the murders would have taken place long before now.

"You said that his daughter couldn't do it," Morgan took charge. "Why not?"

"Jamie? Well, she's always been a bit…_slow_," Kimberly whispered, looking slightly ashamed at calling a person such a thing. "She had a hard time taking care of herself; her father had to work so hard with her. She couldn't get around without him."

"That must have been frustrating as a parent," Morgan said. "What sort of father was Mr. Franklin?"

"Oh, don't misinterpret what I'm saying," Kimberly said, her eyes widening. "It was hard for him and all, but he loved his daughter to death. They would wake up early in the mornings and go walking in the park together. He took her to every Bible study and daily service. They were inseparable."

"I imagine the loss was hard on her," Clarke said, trying to keep her voice even, although adrenaline pounded through her veins again. Jamie Franklin fit the profile.

"Oh, terribly so. For all of us…" she paused, lost in her memories, but then her expression changed. "Wait…you two," she looked between the two of them guardedly. "You don't honestly think that poor Jamie has something to do with the murders, do you?"

She took the silence as confirmation.

"No, not Jamie. Sure she's always been a bit different, but there's no way she could have done something like this. Not a chance. Her father would have rolled over in his grave before Jamie Franklin would murder."

"We still have a lot of suspects," Morgan reassured her. "Do you see Jamie often?"

"Sure, every once in a while…poor girl. She still walks in the park and goes to daily service and all, but without her father—"

"Wait a minute," Morgan said, standing along with Agent Clarke. "When _was _the last time you saw her?"

Kimberly stood as well, startled.

"Just a moment ago—she was at church, but she's left by now—oh!" Kimberly gasped as Morgan and Clarke got their guns out of their holsters and took off toward the door. "I'd rather you not have those in here!"

Opening the door, the two agents raced across the lawn towards the church, Morgan nearly face-planting after sliding on the wet grass. Kimberly Hughes shut her door, not wanting anything more to do with the case.

The sun had completely set on the day as their feet reached the thankfully solid and stable concrete of the parking lot. Pitch black out, Morgan took a breath before swinging the church doors open, his gun ready.

Flickering candlelight provided the only source of light within the otherwise darkened church and Morgan took out his flashlight. He clicked it and pointed every which way in the building before determining it empty.

"Clear!" he called out to Clarke.

"Parking lot, clear," she answered and stowed her gun away, cursing under her breath. They had just missed her.

"Let's go," Morgan said. His pulse was still pounding loud in his ears as they headed back to the sedan.

"Damn grass," Clarke groused. "How did it get so dark so quickly?"

Morgan flipped open his cell phone as he jogged on the street the short distance to the car. He hopped in and waited impatiently as it rang.

"Morgan—" Hotchner's voice sounded.

"Hotch," he interrupted for good reason. "We know who the UnSub is. Her name is Jamie Franklin."

"We know," he responded, sounding a bit shocked that he did as well. "Meet us at 132 Povitch Lane. We're leaving now."

"All right," Morgan said, turning on the car before putting on his seatbelt. "See you in ten."

He snapped his cell shut, and then waited for a moment. Clarke hadn't been far behind him at all and she still hadn't reached the car. Unhooking his seatbelt, Morgan went to open the door to see what the holdup was, when a whimper mixed with a loud smacking noise against the window made him jump.

His head whipped around as he saw a bloodied hand slam against the glass.

* * *

**akaccino's A/N**: Climax! Teehee. ( : I'd just like to thank those who have favorited/reviewed/alerted this story. It took time to gather interest and confidence for this story, which can only be expected, but we got a lot more last week and we **really** do appreciate it.

So, thanks for reading! Please leave a kind review. ( :

**Edit**: Dieselwriter here! Sorry about the late posting and hope you enjoyed this one, the cliffhanger that it is! Definitely more to come next Monday! ;)


	7. Chapter Six

**akaccino's A/N: **Goodness me, we're almost done!

**dieselwriters's A/N: **My time to write the dialogue and akaccino's time to write the action. And here I thought it would be impossible.

Chapter Six

* * *

Morgan jumped out of the car and into the street as he whipped his gun out again. He raced around the car, pointing his weapon at the two figures on the concrete by the passenger side door.

Clarke looked up at him in complete terror, blood covering her hands and legs. She didn't say anything for a moment as she glanced at the body next to her.

"H-He's dead," were her first words.

Morgan put his gun away and quickly helped Clarke to her feet.

"It's okay," he said soothingly. "Hey, you're alright. It's just blood."

"I slipped," she said, eyes darting to her bloody handprint on the car window. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he reassured her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He searched her face until she met his gaze. "Listen to me, it's _fine_."

Nodding her head so much she resembled a bobble head, Clarke inhaled sharply, struggling to keep her composure. Seeing blood, smelling blood, even _tasting_ blood did not faze her, but touching it—_feeling _it—was a different story.

"It's w-warm," she choked out.

Morgan closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he responded and then crouched down next to the body.

It was another teenager, hardly older than Jordan Anderson. His eyes were wide, lying spread-eagle on his back. There was blood pouring from both his throat and chest, coating the ground. A single slash, the number '1', was clearly etched on his chest, despite the red mess.

There were differences, however, with this victim: there were several small scratches that beaded a few drops of blood, as well as multiple wounds around his sternum.

Morgan straightened back up, flipping his phone open again and hitting the redial.

"Hotchner," was the clipped answer on the other line.

"Hotch, we've got another victim in front of Kimberly Hughes' house," Morgan spoke into the phone. "It's fresh; our UnSub has to be close by."

"Stay put; we'll head straight there," Hotch replied. "I'll send Rossi and Sheriff Harrison to Franklin's house just in case. Be there in five."

Morgan shut the phone and walked tentatively towards Clarke, who was sitting on the hood of the car, blood-covered hands out at her sides to be as far away as possible from her body.

"They're coming," he said as a greeting, sliding on the hood to sit beside her. She didn't turn to look at him, just kept staring forward with wide eyes.

"She left a trail," she croaked, nodding her head forward. Morgan followed her gaze to see a dark lump in the road that he thought might have been a jacket. Sporadic patches of blood could be seen leading up to it in the light of the car's headlights.

"He put up a fight," Morgan inclined his head towards their latest victim. He watched her harrowed eyes a moment more before getting up off the car. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up before everyone gets here."

Her head bobbed as she slowly slid off the car to follow behind him as he made his way to the hose laying out in the yard.

* * *

"Hey Morgan, I'm sorry," Clarke said, peeking at the dead body still next to their car.

"Don't worry about it," Morgan replied, squinting through the darkness as a fleet of cop cars turned the corner and headed toward them.

"No, I meant, I'm sorry you were wrong."

Morgan's brows furrowed and he looked over at her. He felt uneasy at seeing the sly grin slowly spread across her face.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, feeling as though he were being set up.

"Well, it doesn't look like Baby Jessica is our UnSub."

Morgan's lip twitched and he gave her a playful shove as Hotch and Reid hopped out of the first car that had arrived on the scene.

"How long has he been here?" Hotch asked as an introduction.

"Half an hour, max," Morgan replied, crossing his arms to fight off the lingering cold. "She can't have gone far."

"We need to know where she would go after service," Reid glanced at the church before putting on his gloves and dropping by the corpse, swinging his flashlight onto it. "And quickly; there are extra lacerations on the chest."

"She's devolving," Clarke said, glancing at the defensive wounds marring the teen's arms. "This is the first victim to fight back; she probably panicked."

"Christ," an officer had found his way closer, looking ill at the site of the new body. "Is that Bob's kid?"

Reid, already beside the body, fished into his pockets to find some form of identification. Locating his wallet, he opened it to find his driver's license.

"Eric Waters," he read off.

"Bob's gonna go postal when he finds out," was all the man said, shaking his head. He was caught off guard as an irate woman made her presence known in a rather loud way.

"Excuse me," Kimberly Hughes looked far less peaceful than prior as she marched across her yard, glaring at the deputies surrounding the area with crime scene tape. "What's going-"

She turned a remarkable shade of green as she eyed the latest victim Reid was still inspecting.

"Get her out of here," Hotch ordered Morgan.

"She might know our UnSub's next move," he replied, watching as Ms. Hughes placed one hand over her stomach and the other across her mouth. "She knows her, Hotch."

The Unit Chief's cell phone rang and he gave him a nod and a quick "Do it," before answering.

"Hotchner."

"Franklin's not here," David Rossi's voice sounded irritated over the phone. "There's bloody clothing lying all over the place, though. She's definitely our UnSub."

"Take a look around and see if there's anything that might tell us where she is. I'm sending Reid and Clarke to you. With any luck they'll run into her along the way."

"Luck, ha," was Rossi's sarcastic response. He let out a bark of a laugh and mumbled out a few choice words, including one rhyming with luck, before ending the call.

Hotch frowned at his phone before clipping it back to his belt and turning to his two youngest agents. Both were watching him, waiting for instructions.

"Go on over to the home. Morgan and I will finish up here first," he said, staring coldly at the corpse before looking at each of them in turn. "If you find her on the way, call it in and wait for backup if you can."

Both nodded at their boss identically before making their way over to the car Hotch and Reid had arrived in.

They blinked at each other in surprise when both reached the passenger's side of the vehicle at the same time.

"You driving?" Clarke asked, perplexed. She could never think of a time a male officer let her drive over himself.

"I'm usually the, uh, map guy," he fished out a small map of Bluefield from his pocket as he spoke.

"There's a GPS."

They stood still and stared blankly at each other before Reid tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

"You...want me to drive?" he asked nervously, as if suggesting something so bold might cause him to spontaneously combust.

"Only if you want," Clarke said, checking over her shoulder to make sure Hotch wasn't watching this strange exchange.

"You might be sorry!" Reid grinned broadly as he practically skipped around to the driver's side. Clarke shook her head but had to give a small laugh before making to open the car door, only to find it locked.

"Spencer!"

He looked up at her from the driver's seat, eyes wide as if afraid he had already lost driving privileges with her even before starting the ignition. She rolled her eyes and tapped at the glass before calling out.

"It's locked."

Comprehension dawned on him as he sheepishly leaned across her seat to pry up the lock. His initial excitement returned as he started the car while she climbed in and closed the door behind her.

As they pulled out, Clarke double checked to make sure her seat belt was buckled correctly when Reid wasn't watching.

They only drove a few minutes before Reid's cell phone started ringing. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and held it up to his ear. Clarke's shoulders stiffened as she watched him drive with only one hand on the wheel, his attention now divided.

"Reid here."

In the silence of the car, both occupants could hear Hotch's voice from the other end.

"Kimberly Hughes gave us two locations to check out. Morgan and I are headed to one, and I need you and Clarke to check out the other. The name is Cinema Center on Kingston Street. It's the only movie theater in town."

"We already passed it," Clarke said, remembering driving by the small multiplex.

"I'll turn around," Reid said, changing lanes.

"Wait, you're driving?" Hotch asked.

The two agents glanced at each other before Reid spoke up.

"Yeah?"

Hotch made an unintelligible noise before abruptly ending the call. Reid frowned but thought little more on it as he made a haphazard U-turn, causing Clarke's face to nearly slam into the window.

"Spencer REID!"

* * *

Morgan led Kimberly into her own house, and while her face was steadily returning to a healthier color, she seemed displeased to find the agent back in her home.

"Can I help you?" she asked as she sat on the sofa, although her tone contrasted the question.

"I need to ask a few more questions, if you don't mind."

She made a doubting face.

"Although it's to help catch Jamie so she won't hurt anyone else," she said, already accepting the fact Jamie was behind the murders, "I don't think I can participate in this sort of violence. You understand."

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry that we startled you. We should have waited until we were out of your home before taking out our weapons, but I have to insist. You have information that can save the lives of your friends and neighbors."

Her shoulders drooped and she sighed.

"Well alright then. Can we make this quick?"

"Of course, ma'am."

She glanced towards her front door, a pained expression flashing across her face.

"Who was it?"

"His name was Eric Waters."

Kimberly blinked and her eyes closed, making the sign of the cross.

"Bless that poor boy."

Morgan's head cocked to the side.

"What do you know about him?" he asked.

She opened her eyes and hugged her sweater tighter around her shoulders.

"Eric was a troubled young man. He was a wild boy. Always getting into some sort of trouble before his father kicked him out of the house. Everyone knows him, only because I'm sure he's the only person in this whole town who would openly declare that he was an atheist."

Morgan nodded his understanding.

"Kimberly, where do you think Jamie would go on a night like tonight?"

"Hm…" she thought, thinking back. "Well, I know that Jamie and her father used to go to the movies occasionally. They'd also go out for dinner or ice cream often after church. I can't think of many other places around here that a woman like her would go."

"Do you have specific locations in mind?" Morgan asked, taking out his phone and calling Rossi.

"Well there's only one movie theatre and that's Cinema Center, just two blocks from here. Hmm…the ice cream parlor would probably be Super Scoop. That's really far from here though and Jamie can't drive herself."

"What about restaurants?" he asked, passing the information over to Rossi.

Kimberly smiled.

"There's only one restaurant that Jamie and her father went and that's Pat's Soup and Sandwich Shop. The owner Pat was great friends with Mr. Franklin."

"What's the address?" Morgan asked her.

"I'm not sure the building number," she said, wrinkling her eyebrows apologetically. "But it's on Rochester Boulevard. Take a left off the street and then the second right and you're on Rochester. You'll see it when you get to it; it has a huge neon sign in the front of it."

"Got that Rossi?" Morgan asked and received his colleague's confirmation. "Meet you there in five."

Morgan clamped his phone shut and placed it in his back pocket.

"Thank you, Ms. Hughes," he said and shook her hand quickly, before descending the stairs.

"When you find her," Kimberly called out, looking worried. "Be gentle with her. She probably doesn't know she's doing anything wrong."

"It'd be unusual if she did," Morgan responded and jogged to the car to head down to Pat's Soup and Sandwich Shop.

* * *

With Reid and Clarke heading to the movie theatre, Hotch finished up with the newest crime scene and left with Morgan to the restaurant. Rossi would meet them after he completed the investigation of Jamie's home with Sheriff Harrison.

Slowing down to a stop in the parking lot of Pat's Soup and Sandwich Shop, Morgan and Hotch hopped out of the sedan and took out their guns. They held them tightly in their unbent arms and Hotch approached the door. He turned to the side and swung the door open, Morgan stepping through and raising his weapon.

"Excuse me!" the man at the register cried and a woman who he was helping turned around and gasped.

Morgan lowered his gun, and put a finger to his lips, his eyes searching the seated diners as Hotch got out his badge to show the man. Morgan cleared his throat to get Hotch's attention. His boss looked over at him and Morgan nodded toward the back corner of the building.

Sitting alone with her head bowed over her plate sat a thin woman with greasy light red hair. She picked at her food with a certain innocence sketched in her features. On the table there was a balled up hand towel with red smears on it.

Morgan gestured a plan and Hotch nodded, following Morgan half of the way to the table before ducking behind a booth. His gun stayed at the ready as Morgan put his back in his holster and arrived at her table.

"Excuse me," he said softly and Jamie looked up. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Her eyes widened.

"Okay," she said, and tore a piece of bread, popping a piece into her mouth.

Morgan sat down in the chair across Jamie.

"Are you Jamie Franklin?" he asked and she nodded, keeping her eyes on her plate. "Can I ask you a question?"

Again, she nodded and glanced up at his face briefly before settling again on her dinner.

"I saw you at church today," Morgan said cautiously. "And I knew you must be a good Christian. You don't lie, do you Jamie?"

"No," she said. "Lying is a sin."

Morgan nodded.

"It is…Jamie," he said seriously. "There was a murder after the service today. I thought you might know something about it."

Jamie swallowed and her eyes snapped to his face.

"Yes…it was the right thing for him," she said, speaking slowly in a deeper voice that made the hairs on the back of Morgan's neck stand up. "He was an atheist."

"And you saw Jordan Anderson stealing, didn't you?"

"He was a thief," she said darkly.

"And the mayor?"

"Corrupt," she growled, pushing her dinner away, seemingly losing her appetite.

Morgan heard a bell chime and he glanced at the door of the shop. Jamie, who was deep in her own thoughts, did not hear as Rossi emptied the shop of diners. They all exited quickly and quietly.

Not wanting Jamie to follow his gaze, he turned back to her.

"The Chief of Police was a bigger guy, wasn't he?" he asked.

"A glutton," she agreed.

"Did you kill them?"

Jamie's eyes glazed over.

"It was God's will," she whispered. "They had Satan in them. Their demons were attacking me and I had to protect myself."

"You killed those people because Satan's demons were attacking you?" Morgan asked.

"They tried to hurt me," Jamie muttered. "They threatened me and I have to perform my duty given by God."

The bell on the door of the shop chimed as the last of the diners left the building and Jamie glanced at the entrance, out of curiosity, when something else caught her attention. Her eyes zeroed in on Hotch's face and then to the object in his hands.

Standing up suddenly, her eyes widened and her hand closed around the steak knife on the table.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Morgan said, standing as well and pulled out his gun, pointing it at her. "Calm down, Jamie, calm down."

Her eyes left Hotch's gun, and then onto Morgan's.

"Violence!" she cried. "You will be immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire!"

She made a sudden move at Morgan, raising her knife swiftly, when a gunshot rang out in the shop.

Jamie's eyes and mouth widened. Wet, scarlet blood began to seep out of the bullet wound in her leg.

Hotch lowered his weapon as she fell to the floor as the knife fell out of her hand, clattering away.

Morgan bent down quickly and picked up the knife and the balled up cloth on the table. Jamie's impossibly wide mouth sucked in a shallow breath and suddenly gave an ear-piercing shriek of agony.

"Jamie, you're going to be okay!" Morgan said loudly over her screams and placed the napkin against the wound in her leg. As he added pressure, Jamie's screaming and flailing only worsened.

"We're going to need a medic," Hotch ordered to Rossi, who already had his phone out.

"_Daddy! Daddy_!" Jamie wailed and Morgan, feeling the exhaustion and emotions hitting him as the UnSub's terror had ended, exhaled and deflated slightly.

"You're going to be okay," he said again. "It'll be over soon."

Although drained, he smiled, knowing it already was.

* * *

**akaccino's A/N: **Yay! Although it's not over yet...stay tuned for next Monday to read the ever-important Epilogue! ( :

**dieselwriters's A/N:** Incidentally, those who are violent towards others gets immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire in Dante's _Inferno_. Who knew? Also incidentally, this chapter originally had a different ending where Jamie was killed. I believe only akaccino and I knew that one... Thanks for those who are putting us on alert and favoriting this story, and a special thank you to those who are reviewing! We hope you enjoyed this chapter and we really hope you like next week's epilogue!


	8. Epilogue

**akaccino's A/N: **We made it! : D Thanks for sticking with us everyone!

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Yay! We've reached the end of our first CM fic! Hope you all had a wonderful Easter!

Epilogue

* * *

_Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh._  
-Leonard Cohen

Exhaustion was an understatement as the team departed Bluefield, Indiana, at three in the morning. Travelling across the opaque sky, the jet cabin was quiet, except for the sound of cards being shuffled.

"Reid," Morgan mumbled. Reid and Clarke sat on one side of a table with Morgan on the other. They had played poker for a few minutes after the jet had taken off, but just as soon as they had reached the altitude they'd stay for the remainder of the flight, Morgan's eyes were as heavy as lead. "Why are you still awake?"

Someone on the plane began to snore, and Morgan did not have to turn around to know that it was Rossi. Hotchner too had his head resting on his fist, his eyes closed.

"I drank two cups of coffee before take off," Reid said, now playing solitaire. "I was trying not to fall asleep at the station."

Morgan huffed and watched Reid's game for a moment before glancing at Clarke. He gave a lazy chuckle and Clarke's eyes flew open, her eyes bloodshot and disoriented.

"What?" she asked, a little dazed.

He just grinned and closed his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," he said and she frowned, rubbing her eyes.

"I wasn't sleeping," she mumbled. "I was reading."

Clarke's Bible was opened in her hands, although no one, including Reid, could read with their eyes shut.

"You were," Reid disagreed from beside her, shuffling the cards once again after he had won. "You were snoring."

"That's definitely Rossi who's snoring," she said and closed her Bible, along with her eyes. She crossed her arms as she leaned back in their shared seat before continuing, "I'll get you for saying that."

Reid's eyebrows rose a bit and glanced at Morgan who shook his head doubtingly. He went back to shuffling cards.

Megan would read a couple passages in her Bible after they had solved a case. When Reid had asked her about it the first time he noticed, she explained that in order to do the best of her ability in this job, she had to keep her faith strong. Reid understood to a certain degree; Garcia did the same thing in the sense that she filled her office with toys. Both were ways to see past the gruesome career they had chosen and remind them that goodness and happiness were all around them.

"Reid," Morgan asked. "Got any plans for this weekend?"

With his eyebrows furrowed, Reid did not look up from his game as he answered.

"I have some casework to get finished."

"Riveting," Morgan said dryly, his expression blank.

Reid looked up and gave a tight smile, raising his eyebrows.

"Come on, man," Morgan exasperated as Reid gave a short laugh, getting back to his game. He knew his friend would not like the idea of working on the weekend. "Why don't we hang out tomorrow night? I'll give you the afternoon to do your thing and then you can come out and get a drink. Play some pool. Clarke could come," he added and grinned.

Clarke was surely asleep, because she did not respond. If she had been awake, she would have scoffed at the idea of going anywhere with Morgan outside of the job.

"Why don't you ask Hotch?" Reid suggested and Morgan gave him an 'are you serious' face. "What?"

Morgan just shook his head, took his headphones out from his pocket, and connected it to his mp3 player.

"You need to explore the world outside your job, kid. We have fun out here."

"I'm sure it's _quite_ thrilling," Reid said sarcastically and his eyes tightened, concentrating on his game. Morgan stared at him from the corner of his eye, shaking his head again.

"You really think that a night out would be completely terrible?" he asked. "Remember that time we went out and you met that bartender? You guys completely hit it off, with my help. Now you tell me that wasn't fun."

"You are a persistent thing, aren't you?" he asked, again not meeting his eyes.

"Come on!" he said, feeling he was close to persuading him. "You could meet someone else again. Maybe get yourself a little action, huh?" he said with a grin, nodding his head as Reid pursed his lips in amusement at Morgan's ever-failing attempt to get him a date. "My man Reid, bein' smooth, getting a girl, getting some-"

Morgan cut off when Megan's head fell heavily onto Spencer's shoulder.

Reid's eyes widened dramatically and froze. The cards he had been shuffling fell steadily out of his unmoving hands. His mouth opened and closed several times, staring at her sleeping face and then looked up at Morgan for help.

Morgan's eyebrows rose and then he laughed, putting his headphones on.

"Nevermind, then," he said as Reid's pleading expression turned almost frightened as his friend turned his back on the situation.

For a long while, he remained paralyzed, not sure what to do. Then, very slowly, he placed the cards he had in his hands down onto the table, opened the plane's window cover, and crossed his arms. Torn between consternation and another undetectable emotion, his flushed face turned toward the window and watched as the city lights passed below, thinking with a childlike innocence, that it looked quite pretty.

* * *

Arriving at the BAU at five in the morning, the team nearly fell out of the elevator in fatigue. They shuffled sleepily to their desks to collect and pack their items to go home for a much-needed morning off.

Hotch yawned widely as he climbed the stairs to his office and Reid laughed.

"What's so funny?" Clarke asked, as she placed a stack of folders into her bag.

Reid shook his head slightly.

"I haven't seen everyone this tired since-"

"Garcia," Morgan interrupted in concern, all tiredness washed away by his tone. "What's wrong?"

Everyone looked up at the technical analyst's fearful expression as she met Hotch at the top of the stairs.

She looked right into his face, her eyes almost tearing up. Then, she whispered words that sent shivers down everyone's spines except Clarke's. Words that were so terrifying for the team to hear, but somehow expected to come sooner or later.

Hotch looked down at the file Garcia held in her outstretched hand.

He looked back up into her frightened eyes as she said the words.

"He's back."

* * *

**akaccino's A/N: T**hat plane scene with Clarke and Reid...I've wanted to have that small part between them at the end for the longest time and dieselwriter was doubtful, nearly not letting me put it in. :'( But then she did! : D Hope it wasn't too cheeseball...but even if it is, I don't care. : )

**dieselwriter's A/N: **Cliffhanger? I think so. Our next fic will certainly be able to provide answers to all your burning questions!

Also, we'd like to acknowledge those who are loyal to our stories and give us somewhat consistent feedback! A huge thanks to the following people!

**Alice Prince:** AU = Alternate universe. ; ) Thanks!

**Rachiixox: **Thanks for our reviews! We're glad you like our story! ( :

**Gollum4077**: Answering your question, no. This is not our last FF-Thank you!

**Vampiremuggle**: Thank you for your reviews! They always make us smile! (-:

**ChiefBandit: **Thanks so much! : D

Stay tuned!


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